Waiting for the End
by Stolen Childe
Summary: Dean's pretty sure he's just this side of crazy, but maybe it's the world that is instead. Contains spoilers for Season Seven.  Pre-slash


**Title:** Waiting for the End (The hardest part of ending, is starting again)

**Author:** Stolen Childe

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the boys!

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warnings:** language, angst, mentions of canon character death, Dean-centric, mention of medicinal drug use

**Pairing/Characters:** Dean+Castiel, Sam

**Spoilers:** Up to and including 7x10, possibly for 7x17

**Summary:** Dean's pretty sure he's just this side of crazy, but maybe it's the world that is instead.

**Author's Notes:** This is my response to some recent news about upcoming episodes, though I haven't actually looked too deeply into spoilers. I know a few of these stories are floating around lately but this is my take on it. Written directly after 7x10 but I've been too nervous to post until now. Please enjoy! Feedback is loved and cherished. Title is from the song by the same name by Linkin Park. Subtitle is a lyric from that song.

_Random side note_ – I always felt like this song was the quintessential Dean song, his theme song if you will and that "21 Guns" by Green Day is the ideal Castiel song. If I had the ripping software I'd make vids, but I don't anymore… Oh well.

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**Waiting for the End (The hardest part of ending, is starting again)**

Dean's glad that everyone has stopped trying to pry into his head. Ever since he got back from Hell which seems like eons away now, everybody wanted to tear him apart piece by piece. Take out what bits they could and analyze him like he was a bloody frog in Biology class. And Dean's _hated_ it. So yeah, he's glad everyone's stopped trying to get in there, because it's awfully crowded if you ask Dean. His guilt alone takes up a good eighty percent of the space which leaves fight with fifteen and plan with the measly remaining five.

Though Dean does admit, when he slams the breaks on of the Impala which they finally rescued from the lot they stashed her in, and stops with a squeal, he's a little surprised all he gets from Sammy is a quirked eyebrow along his Cro-Magnon forehead. Dean thought he just saw…

The green eyed man shakes his head, "Squirrel." His offer is bleak and succinct but Sam doesn't question it just turns his attention back to the map he's been pouring over since Bobby, in his last moment of lucidity, scrawled across Sam's hand. Dean makes a mental note to call Jodie and check in. Dean swallows, and guilt steals another percent of space from planning but Dean continues to drive.

When it happens again and Dean slams the breaks on so hard Sam flies forward and the seatbelt cutting into his clavicle causes a pitiful mewl to escape his little brother's lips, Dean braces himself the questions. They don't come. Sam bitches about his spilt frappe mocha latte froo-froo girly-boy drink that is now decorating his lap a lovely shade of taupe –Dean wonders how he _even_ _knows_ it's called taupe—and Dean gladly starts driving gain. Thanking whoever is left out there that Gigantor's kept his docking bay of a mouth clamped firmly closed on Dean's admittedly strange behaviour.

The next time Dean startles and freaks out it isn't in the car, which he's grateful for because his poor baby girl has taken enough abuse over the years, but it's in a ridiculously small General Store in small town firmly nestled in the ass-crack of America. Dean's carefully wedging a bag of beef jerky out of the rack that holds it in its aluminum grasp and tries to avoid looking at the 'Genuine Live Bait!' right next to it. Dean catches a glimpse of messy chestnut hair so dark it looks black, a cheek sporting a thin layer of stubble and a flash of blues eyes. He blinks, squeaks and (manfully he's sure) backpedals before practically fleeing over to the counter behind which stands a thin old man in a trucker cap and overalls who raises slow lazy brows but says nothing but 'mmmhmmm' and hands Dean his change.

Sam's just putting the pump for the gas back in the cradle when Dean comes out. Rather than commenting on Dean's frazzled appearance Sam makes grabby hands for the Passion Flakey that Dean's bought him and slides into the car.

"Dude! Don't get the flakey fake pastry shit on my upholstery. You do and you're licking it off!" Dean snaps. Sam meets Dean square in the eyes, green clashing with hazel-green and takes a huge, deliberate bite. Dean growls and launches himself at his brother but Sam scoots back and laughs. Dean carefully brushes sugar granules and pastry flakes of the sturdy vinyl of the seats and makes gentle hushing noses to his baby. She purrs when he starts her up and he thinks he's forgiven.

Sam licks artificial cherry or raspberry or strawberry filling (Dean's never been 100% sure what it's supposed to be) off his fingers and Dean watches with careful eyes before pulling out of the gravel lot and away from the circa '52 gas pumps and back onto the highway. Sam doesn't ask him a thing.

Dean's beginning to think his glimpses and subsequent reactions are all just a mere figment of his imagination because no one else seems to be noticing anything and Dean's finally worried he's snapped for good. After all the fucked up shit he's seen, it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibilities.

xx

Dean's now standing in the wet, cool parking lot of sleezy motel #10502 that they're holed up in for the evening and is currently trying to remember why he ever quit smoking because the warm curl of smoke and soothing hand of nicotine would be doing wonders for his nerves right now. But Dean hasn't had a cigarette since he was twenty-four and his dad tanned his hide good and proper when Dean almost collapsed one night for wheezing as they chased down a black dog along the borders of New England. Dean settles for flicking his old trusty Zippo open and closed, open and closed the dull _click,__ schnik__, click_of the sound soothing in the quiet night.

Sam's hopefully crashed out good back in the room. He should be anyway for all the sleeping pills Dean laced his brother's water with before he went to bed. Dean is left alone now, which he does relish when he gets the opportunity and hates in the same breath.

There's a sudden bizarre curling chill in the air and Dean shivers in his thin jacket. He looks around, questioningly, wondering if it is merely the weather or something infinitely more sinister but far easier for Dean to deal with. He sees nothing, feels no tingles shimmy up and down his spine and doesn't worry.

No, he saves that for when the light flickers and pops overhead threatening to shatter and rain sparks and glass down on his vulnerable head. He inches back in preparation, reaches into his waistband for his trusty Colt 1911 and pats his hip where Ruby's knife rests—at least the bitch left them something worth the shit she put them through.

The bulb does blow with a crackle then, and Dean's glad he had the foresight to step back because he's safely out of harm's way of the cascading sparks. He experiences an unsettling, disorienting twisting feeling of déjà vu deep down in his gut and he tightens his grip on his gun.

Demons and ghosts make the lights flicker or turn out but there's only one thing Dean knows of that makes them explode. He swallows, not prepared to believe it. He's probably going to never be prepared to believe it again. However, mixed in with all the suspicion and anxiety there is a rebellious flare of hope that Dean can't dampen fast enough. All those glimpses and flashes, looks and _feelings_ the past couple weeks, ever since Bobby's accident, have proven to maybe be just a touch more than Dean can handle. And _no one'__s asking_.

He edges further away, determined to head back to the motel room and never think about the exploding light again. Just ignore everything completely and tell himself that'll make it go away. Even though, those little lies stopped working when he was four years old.

He tries not to feel like a coward when he turns and starts in with a fast paced shuffle, he will not suffer the indignity of calling it a run. It's just too cold, and too dark and too bloody late to do anything about it, but escape. He's sick of it, tired of it and _no one's asking_.

Before he reaches the motel he feels static sparks shooting over his skin, the phantom brush of feathers and a dull thrum of power he could never hope to understand. He's felt it before, more often than many others in the world, more often than _all_ others in the world he imagines. Dean's breath hitches than begins to come out in short, gasping spurts. He is so not dealing with this. The Sandal Brigade can all go fuck off and die because the one good thing they ever expelled was gone now and he was _not_ believing anymore. Free Will, right?

Dean's hand is on the knob of the room and in the barely there reflection of the dirty, scummy glass next to it he sees a flash that makes his heart stutter to a halt before picking up triple-time. Dean spins, whips around, gun (that he knew would be useless) at the ready.

He stares down the barrel into…

…nothing.

Dean takes a deep shuddering breath, collapsing against the beaten up wood of their motel door, the bronze room number—96—digs into the side of his head. He closes his eyes exhales deep and long. Breathes in, out, in, out then in again and just holds it there while he listen to the staccato of the heartbeat in his chest and gradually waits for the thickening black behind his eyes before he lets the breath out and allows his lungs to work again.

It's official, made so just now, Dean's gone bat-shit crazy and no one seems to _fucking notice_. He briefly wonders what kind of person that makes him before thinking he rather not delve too deep into his psyche right now when there wasn't much there left to dive into.

With shaking hands, Dean refusing to acknowledge he pushes open the door of their motel room and drunk-stumbles over to the remaining vacant bed. He collapses, on his stomach, fully clothed just barely managing to toe of his boots. Dean breathes into the musty smelling pillow for a moment, just concentrating on the motion and the sound. He ignores the eyes burning into the back of his neck, because clearly they can't possibly be there. Even if the weight of the not-there gaze is comforting and soothing he tries to push it aside and sleep. As usual, when he does, it's fitful.

xx

Dean's sitting in the diner down the street from their motel the next day. Sam's perky and sunny, happily sipping orange juice and eating _whole grain_ pancakes – the kid is nuts. The sleeping pills that Dean force-fed his little brother, apparently having done the trick, however. Dean's glad, even though the brat is insufferable when he's 'in a good place.'

Dean downs half a mug of coffee and pokes at his fried eggs, having already demolished the bacon at a spectacular speed, when he catches another glimpse from the corner of his eyes crossing in front of the diner windows. Dean's heart stops once more and he quickly realizes he's had enough.

Dean scrambles out of the booth so erratically and so violently that his coffee mug goes flying and the remaining dregs of brown liquid are pooling on the already sticky tabletop. Sam makes anxious noises of protest, his voice following Dean out of the diner as the green-eyed man barrels down the street squeezing and weaving through the angry morning pedestrians.

When Dean is clear, he runs, bolts it down the street and grabs the corner of the wall, brick scratching up his palm, as to not lose his momentum as he rounds it. It was unnecessary. Dean stumbles to a stop and gapes.

Panicked blue eyes widen as the being at the end of the alley shakes messy locks of ebony backing up and away. Dean follows each step back with a step forward of his own, not quite reaching out but his hand twitching to do so. There's a fence along the back of the alley and the being hits it with a squeak of fear, surprise or panic. Or maybe all three.

"Cas," Dean whispers, he's a foot away. If he wanted to –and oh, does he want to—he could reach out and touch. The man before him is flicking his gaze anywhere but at Dean, trying to find a way out or away. Dean takes a moment to wonder why he doesn't just fly.

Castiel makes a strange little dodge as if he were going to run and Dean reaches out and grips both arms tight. Another pained sound wrenches free from full lips and finally, _finally_, blue eyes land on green.

"Cas, Castiel, you're… you're real," Dean blinks into the gloom.

"Dean," the angel whimpers. "Dean, I'm lost."

"Cas?"

"Did, did I make it? Are things all right now? Dean? Is _everything_ all right now?" Castiel is suddenly all motion and power as he closes in on Dean clings desperate to the hunter's shirt pushing him back until Dean's shoulder blades hit brick. Dean clamps down on the fear that threatens. The blue eyes in front of him are wild, heated like a trapped animal.

Dean wants to tell the truth, hurl the accusations and say how Castiel has only made it just that much_ worse_ but something holds him back and he doesn't. He takes a moment actually, to feel the impossible heat radiating from the angel's burrowed body and see the curve of a stubble-covered jaw again, the chapped lips and deep, deep blue eyes. He looks small without his trench coat.

Dean lies.

"Yeah Cas, sure, everything's okay now, everything's good."

Castiel nods, breaths and leans forward until his forehead is pressed against Dean's shoulder and Dean stands with the angel's fists balled in his shirt and the angel's body pressing him back against the wall.

Dean just stands, his arms limp at his sides, eyes following cracks and water streaks on the brick wall opposite.

He lies.

"We're all good Cas."

**End**


End file.
